“Thought you might like a lift, my hearties!” said the Albatross, abruptly, as he flew up. “Where are you bound?”
“West Land, sir,” said Tibbs, who determined to humour the bird.
“It’s a long, long way to——”
“Is he going to sing ‘Tipperary?’” thought Coppertop.
“West Land!” remarked the Albatross. “Get aboard, you lubbers—I’m sailing that way.”
Coppertop didn’t know whether to be annoyed or not at being addressed as a “lubber,” but decided that the bird meant it kindly.
“Not all on the starboard side, or we’ll capsize,” warned the Albatross, as the children hastened to avail themselves of his kind invitation. “Stow yourselves abaft the hatch between the main-sheets,” he directed.
“But there aren’t any sheets!” said Coppertop, in bewilderment, “or even blankets!” although as she said this, it seemed to her that he was rather like a bed—a feather one.
“He means his wings,” whispered Tibbs; “we must sit up here on his shoulders.”
“Are you all aboard, my hearties?”